


The Creak of Pathos

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Aran POV, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Branching narrative, Canon-Typical Violence, Cole POV, Demons, Dorian POV, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Loss, M/M, Multi, Rilienus POV, Rituals, Romance, Spirits, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Aran Trevelyan, the seventh scion of Bann Trevelyan, has had a truly terrifying, confusing decade. He survived an explosion, was marked by an ancient Elvhen orb, became the mascot for a rebel faction of the Chantry, was stabbed by a magic artifact that has sent him hurtling through time and space... and that was only the beginning!An escape. An error. Demons. Spoilers. Crossing paths and misinterpretations.Follows the events of To The Temple of His Eyes.
Relationships: Anders/Miranda Trevelyan (OC), Cole/Dorian Pavus, Cole/Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Evangeline de Brassard/Rhys
Series: here in this moment [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1162070
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Cloud freckles falling. Ice lace. Cold upon his fingers. Cold. He stared at the snow as it melted on the back of his hand. Wrong. A hand clasped in his, the feel of the Fade electric against his palm. Wrong. Tangled steam winding around them, heat and energy rising in a sizzling flurry. 

“Cole!”

He turned towards the familiar shout, his borrowed name in a voice he knew so well. Rhys. Scowling and turbulent. Panting from the exertion of a run. A run. Why would be he running? _Run_. “No! Run!” Cole shouted, raw, and pressed his blade to Dorian’s throat. Hesitated. _No. No. No. No!_ He shuddered as beringed fingers touched his wrist. Light. Knowing. Wrong.

“You’re mine as well,” the thing that wasn’t Dorian smiled, slick and slow. “You won’t harm a single hair on this lovely head. You know that.”

“No no no no no,” Cole trembled. “Get out, get out!”

“What’s happening?” The mage named Miranda asked, closely followed by the man with the feathers and the cat. 

“Cole?”

“It’s not him! It came through. I couldn’t protect him. I was too slow!” Cole stared at his blade pressed to that warm honey throat. Memories and histories swarmed his mind like wasps. It was Dorian but not Dorian. He was Cole but not Cole. And Aran- he couldn’t look, couldn’t move, couldn’t risk the others. He could not hurt this mage. He had to. There were too many others in danger - innocents, mage and mundane alike. He knew that- knew there was only one way.

“I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about,” not-Dorian lifted a brow, peering at the trio of mages at the crest of the small rise. “But I wouldn’t say no to an assist.”

Rhys placed a hand on Miranda’s shoulder as she started forward. “No.”

“But-“

“Cole knows what he’s doing,” Rhys insisted. “I trust him.”

“You might,” Anders grunted, “but I don’t know him from Adam and he looks just a tad psychotic at the moment.”

“Aran?” Miranda asked.

Aran exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed, still lost in the trance of a near kiss. Or something worse.

“It’s been an emotional day for him. He’ll perk up soon enough.” Dorian tapped lightly at Cole’s wrist, “Do put that away, my boy.”

“No!” 

“No need to shout. I’m right here.”

“You _aren’t-_ I can’t-“ Cole felt wet heat on his cheeks. Leaking. He was leaking. Why did everything hurt? No; he had to think of Rhys! And all the other mages! Everyone. Every one. Their thoughts a chorus of worry and weariness. He couldn’t allow a demon to walk among them. Not even a demon wearing a pretty face. He shook his head roughly, trying to clear it, trying to find a path through all the memories that _weren’t his_! He couldn’t get inside to heal the hurt. There was no hurt left. Only decision. Pleasure. Predatory pride. For now. Until the creature behind those eyes saw something else it wanted more. Until it leapt and changed and stole another, then another life, never satisfied- “I’m sorry,” he whispered, letting his blade fall.

“Very good. Now-“ Dorian’s eyes widened as the long dirty knife pressed into his chest and through. “No!” he gasped, coughed, looking down in shock. “What have you done?”

Cole watched blood well up over a full lip he could recall kissing with perfect clarity. He never had, yet he knew that he’d loved kissing that lip. Loved its shape, even though he didn’t care for many shapes. It was like a berry. Like the sometimes moon. He knew it. He’d loved it. He’d loved. Aran swayed and slumped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut, and Cole stumbled back as the two blonde mages raced past him, falling to their knees in the snow. “I couldn’t save him,” he wept, feeling Rhys’ arms tighten around him.

“You saved us.”

“I couldn’t save _him_!” It was akin to being torn apart by savage claws, dark forest, screaming wind, a flock of ravens. He shuddered. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I’m sorry-!”

“Come. Come with me.”

“I can’t!”

“There’s nothing we can do.” Rhys spoke quietly, calmly in his ear. There had been a time where this would have scared the mage, or made him so angry, or disappointed him. Now he had seen too much. Too much blood. Too much loss. He held onto whatever he could for as long as he could. That was all. That was enough, until more was called for. “I need to get you somewhere safe. Before there are questions we’re not ready to answer. Cole. Come with me.”

“I can’t leave them,” Cole whispered. 

“You have to.” 

_I love them_. His skin felt too tight, ill-fitting. Stifling. Suffocating. _I love them_.   
  


* * *

He huddled in a corner, hugging his knees, as the arguments went around and around the big table. And in private, in hushed voices, Rhys and Evangeline continued those arguments still. Words, floundering, panic, decision. He paid no mind. Hours. Days. Time passed. He went where he was told. His body felt leaden. Mechanical. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His heart was breaking. He hadn’t known he had one. Not like this. Since he’d learned he wasn’t human, he’d imagined himself to be full of sundown light- but that wasn’t true. He was shadows and pulp, a bruised pomegranate inside living flesh. 

From time to time, Rhys or Evangeline touched his shoulder. Gentle attempts at consolation. They thought he was afraid of punishment or afraid that they would stop being his friends. He couldn’t explain. He wanted to. He’d watched them swim through the emotions he was experiencing. They’d taken them in small doses though, like potions, strengthening them for the next. 

Cole was drowning. 

What they said, what they decided, he didn’t know. All he could feel was the hot blood pouring over his hand. Not the first time nor the last, but the worst. All he could hear was the shattering animal shriek from Aran’s mouth when he’d come to for the instant before his sister-cousin-stranger pressed her fingers to his brow and sent him, reeling, back to sleep. Even in sleep, he grieved. Blood. Snow. Soil. Burned bones. Roiling seas. Flowers being torn apart. 

_Wake up_ , he wanted to say. _Let me in_ , he wanted to beg. But he didn’t. So Aran sat still as stone, toiling internally; his gaze empty, reflecting flames. Tranquil horror. Hours, Cole perched invisibly in the shadowed corner and listened to him scream and weep with dry eyes and a placid expression. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to whisper. Wanted to touch. He gnawed his own gorey fingers raw instead. 

He went to the gates when Evangeline asked him to. Standing between the high wooden posts, he watched her speak to the commander. The sunlight flashed along the soldiers’ blades. They wanted to help. They didn’t know how, but the movement helped. Helped them feel whole. Made them sturdy. Their feet hurt, but they liked the pain. An earned ache. Not like-

“Cole?”

He blinked slowly, raising his gaze to hers, “Yes?”

“I need your help.”

Cole looked at the frozen lake. Something so fragile that was so strong. A hidden deep. He nodded. He followed her past the soldiers and into the forest, stepping into a clearing near a small house. 

“Cole…” she shifted her grip on the hilt of her sword. She would kill him now. Finally. She should. “When you go inside… I need you to tell me what you feel, what you hear, what you know. Tell me; don’t act. Will you?”

“Yes,” he croaked, quiet.

“Go on then.”

The door felt strange when he touched it. It tingled. Reminding him of the coast of an island, a day on a boat where he’d lay in the sun, letting tiny fish nibble his fingertips as Aran lazily threw a string with a hook into the sea again and again and again… 

It hadn’t happened, not to him, but he remembered it as though it had. No. What had happened? What did it really feel like? The keep- Pharimond- the circle… yes, that was it. The circle that had cloaked and strapped and trapped… He bowed his head and stepped through the door when she opened it. Yes. Inside was best. In the welcome shadow. 

He found the blonde, feathered man scowling in a corner, arms crossed, glaring. The light hadn’t touched him in days. His eyes were smudged red and black with smoke and exhaustion. “I know my business,” he snapped.

“Hush.” Evangeline nudged Cole ahead. “Anything?”

The mage in the corner was angry. Distrustful. He didn’t like Evangeline at all, and liked Cole even less. It surprised him - Anders, whose true name was buried beneath a hill of ashes; he hadn’t expected to dislike anyone more than a Templar. “ _Working my fingers to the bone and for what,”_ Cole murmured. “ _I’ve lost patients before but never stood aside and allowed my work to be undone._ ” 

“And now he reads minds,” Anders scoffed. “Just wonderful.”

Only Cole wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. There was a figure on the bed in the shaded corner. Breathing. _Breathing_. “Breathing,” he breathed. Dark eyes, gleaming. Tired, yes, but clever still. Clever and _his._ Cole staggered forward, ignoring the scuffle between Anders and Evangeline behind him. He brushed his fingers over the man’s cheek. 

“You stabbed me, I hear.”

Cole prodded at the hair that covered his face. Traced the length of his nose. “Yes.”

“I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Cole’s gaze scampered like a squirrel. Dorian. _Dorian_. “You’re not the same.”

“I apologize,” he whispered, his voice raw with misery. “I am mortified. Hubris. Quite the infernal muddle. Can you ever forgive me?”

Leaking. Cole was leaking, his cheeks hot with it, and his hands shook, like the girl under the ratty blanket on the muddy corner in Denerim. Hope and horror. A thick, wet sound climbed out of his throat like a drowning cat as one sun-touched hand cupped his cheek. 

“I am so very sorry, Cole-“

“It used us against you,” he sputtered, words wet. 

“I recall,” Dorian muttered darkly. 

“You’re here. You’re _here._ You’re alive. How?”

“I’m Tevinter,” he smiled, wan. “We’re like cockroaches, haven’t you heard? Would you be so kind…?” He lifted his brows, tapping his temple. 

Cole didn’t need to. He knew already. Knew the feel of him. The energy that collected on him like a rising storm then dissipated like mist. Nevertheless, he touched Dorian’s forehead, brushing his fingers through the too-long hair in the wrong color. Sloped edges, high towers, crackling with new energy, but familiar. Orange peels and sunsets. So beautifully at home in hills full of night-blooming flowers. “You’re you.”

“A blessing and a curse.” Dorian frowned. “It’s dead, then.”

“Gone.”

“Pity. I was hoping I could kill it myself. Several times.”

“No more demons,” Cole shook his head roughly.

“I wholeheartedly agree with your sentiment, Ocellus, but I don’t think we’ll - either of us - have much choice on that score going forward. We can but try our best.” He raised a brow, “Now, Aran is recovering under Miranda’s watch, I’ve been told, but I’m not allowed out of this cabin until _you_ say that I can.” 

“This isn’t right,” Cole tugged at the beard. 

“I agree. Still, have a care.” Dorian glanced past his shoulder. “Do you see? I have been raised from the dead, as suits my practice; an experience even the most renowned courtiers in Nevarra would die for. Literally and figuratively. Well and so, may I please go and see him now?”

“You _nearly_ died,” Anders snapped. “No. You can’t leave that bed.”

“Cole?” Evangeline asked, sounding as bewildered as he’d ever heard her. It didn’t matter. “It is truly gone? You’re certain?”

“Yes. Yes,” Cole pressed his forehead to Dorian’s shoulder and breathed. “Yes.”

“You have an effect on spirits, Magister.” She was worried, not angry. Aran and Dorian were both so afraid people would be angry if they saw, but Evangeline was his friend. They could trust her. They didn’t know it yet. “Are you a medium?” she asked.

“I’m an Altus,” Dorian told her quietly. “And no. By trade, I’m a shocking disappointment.” His voice was soft warm caramel. He smelled like strange herbs and wax. His fingers touched Cole’s hair, timid, then firmer as Cole leaned into him. “Is Aran well, at least? Can you tell me that much?”

“He’s alive, as are you, and that’s what matters,” Evangeline reported. “The healer is correct, though-”

“‘The healer-’” Anders scoffed as he threw dried herbs into a stone bowl, “-has a name.”

“You’re too weak to move,” she continued, ignoring him. “We’ll bring Conchobar - Aran - to you. Perhaps that will…” she trailed off, hesitant. “Cole?”

“I’m staying here.”

“...all right.”

“What? Andraste’s knickers,” Anders huffed. “Take his weapons at least, won’t you, Templar? That’s something your lot still does, isn’t it?”

“Use your eyes. He’s not going to hurt the man.”

“I thought that last time,” grumbled the mage. “Then I spent a week repairing lungs.”

“Cole saved his life!”

“Give a nail to a hammer,” Anders rolled his eyes. “You’d be happy to see us all saved in just such a way, wouldn’t you?”

Evangeline’s fingers tightened on her hilt. “You don’t know me.” She met Cole’s gaze across the room. “Stay. I’ll return this evening and we’ll… discuss our next steps.”

“Yes, but how-” Dorian asked as she left, the door closing behind her. “-is he?”

Broken, bitter salt and sharp stones, shredded and shorn, bloody, blood, blood in the snowfall, so much blood, so much- Cole buried his face in Dorian’s palm, pressing those long, beringed fingers against his eyes. 

“ _I_ saved your life, and it didn’t require getting uppity with a dirty knife.” Anders ground herbs into a paste, still eyeing Cole suspiciously. “Was that part of the plan? If you had one. Did you? As much a plan as anyone has when meddling with forbidden magic, among other things?”

Dorian glanced up, his gaze sharpening.

“It’s not my first stroll around the block.” Anders carefully poured oil into the herbs. “I hope whatever you were trying to accomplish was worth it.” The blonde mixed a paste, hip resting against a table strewn with papers. “You’re marked indelibly and, while I’m not familiar with that particular pattern, I’ve seen enough deals with demons to know what a binding brand looks like. At least you had the decency to bind yourself in addition to my friend.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to lie to your healer? Do I not have eyes?”

Dorian frowned down at the bandage winding up around his arm, tentatively peeling at a fold of the cotton. He flinched. His fingers shook as he traced the scales that wrapped his wrist and twined up his arm, raised and reddened, like a creature living just under his skin. A serpent. A dragon.

Cole touched the mark, causing Dorian to shiver. “It isn’t what you think.”

“A chain,” Dorian croaked.

“A rope.” 

“Little enough difference, Ocellus.” He swore, hissed, “I could _feel_ myself bending. I _knew_ better than to trust what we found there, but so much of it was- so much was-” His velvet voice vibrated. “He _trusted_ me.”

“You trust each other.”

“He didn’t know what I’d found. He didn’t know and, it seems, neither did I.”

“You were trying to protect him.”

“ _Myself._ I was trying to protect myself.”

“You still don’t understand,” Cole whispered. “He needs you. It wasn’t the spell that was the problem; it was old and it did what you asked of it. You became fire and spirit-“

“Weak.”

“ _Strong._ It didn’t matter. You kept Envy from taking your form, your hurt it, and all it could do was the next best thing. To hide inside. For that, it only needed you to bleed and open; that was all. It didn’t matter how or why.”

“It certainly did. Does.” Dorian straightened, raising his voice, “It matters to me. I _married_ him and it nearly _killed_ us both.”

“Was that it, then?” Anders inquired curiously. “Of course Tevinter marriages involve blood magic. To think mine was a mere prayer among the posies. Belated congratulations on your nuptials.” He fluttered his hands, scooting Cole to the other side of the bed, and drew open the folds of Dorian’s robe to apply the herbal paste. The freshly healed scar on Dorian’s chest was inches from his heart. Gruesome, raw, and dark purple bleeding into smooth brown. 

Dorian closed his hand over Anders’ wrist and received a swat for his trouble.

“Cut it out. Andraste’s underoos- Of everyone here, I’m the least likely to report you to Templars or wilting Circle flowers. If you want to be paranoid, worry about the medium your friend here is so attached to.”

“Rhys is my friend,” Cole insisted. 

“As I said. And we all know that a mage playing house with a Templar is the _best_ of allies. What could possibly go wrong? What was I thinking? Speaking of playing house,” Anders smiled pleasantly at Dorian. “Fair warning, I don’t think anyone’s going to buy you any fancy flatware. What would you do with it anyway, I ask? We had to leave ours along with everything else the last time we ran. Kept a pair of spoons. Symbolic, I’ve been told.” He placed a layer of cloth over the paste and pressed Dorian back to the bed. “Don’t get up. I know they say marriage is the death of man, but you can stop trying to prove them right.”

Cole closed his eyes. “ _Flowers in her hair; petals from a shedding bough in dawn light. She wept for you both. You hid your face against her neck to hide your tears._ ” 

The healer cleared his throat, “It was a joke, you horrendous brain weasel.”

Dorian glanced away, his hand a gently curled fist against his own neck. A translucent eyelid blinked horizontally across his gleaming, dark eye, gilding his iris for an instant; then it was gone. The demon was gone, truly, but the beast they summoned yet remained. Did he know? Cole wondered. Could he feel it? 

“It was supposed to protect us. Keep us together.” Dorian gleamed gold in the hearthlight, an inward glow. “Why is it that I cannot seem to touch something but it sours?”

He was ancient songs and cracked glass, colored carefully, scorched by sunlight. Cole traced the whitened knuckles of his strained fist. Why couldn’t he see the wonder of it? That he had been ridden but not routed? That despite demons and the depth of his own blade, he was still drawing breath- too strong to be subdued. Smelling of smoke, but never turned to ash? 

And even now, when he believed his fate to be solitude… Dorian’s hand turned, fingers softened and spread like petals opening for the sun. Cole could feel himself in those opening petals, damp and dewed and so new that he trembled, fearful of the next sensation and the next. Mild breezes that set him shivering. 

“So far as I am aware-” Anders crossed to the hearth to stir a hanging cauldron. “-only the seven of us know what’s happened. And of those… I can only pray the Templar and her pet do not learn _every_ detail. I assume they aren’t yet aware, or you would have been plunged upon a pike by now.”

“Evangeline is a good person,” Cole curled against Dorian’s side. 

“The ‘good’ are the last sort your friend here wants or needs at the moment.” 

“She _is_ a Templar, yes, but she thinks with her heart and then her head before she lifts her hand.” He looked to Dorian, “She won’t hurt you.”

Dorian waved his hand negligently, rings catching fire to wink and sparkle. “If Cole says I can trust her, then I can.”

The blonde man ladled a thick green liquid into a cup. “Oh, by all means, believe the spirit that tried to kill you about the Templar who would love to. I wouldn’t, but I was cursed with a rare disease called common sense.” 

Dorian harrumphed, his gaze slinking to Cole’s fingers twined with his own. “I once suffered from that disease as well. I was cured.”

“More’s the pity.” 

“We’ll be safe, here, you’ll see,” Cole felt the warmth inside of him. Thrilling, thrumming, throwing him from wall to wall though he didn’t move. Neither of them did. And yet there was… touch and tangling, tasting honey from a thumb, listening to him read while Aran lay between them, mumbling in his sleep. Trusting. Trust. “We’ll stay tiny, no trouble, no one will notice us. They want his knowledge. He wants to tell them. Everything will be fine.”

“There, you see?” Dorian said, pleasant and pleading… with himself more than the healer. “Everything will be fine, he says.”

“I suppose we can only hope he’s right.” Anders handed him the cup. “Drink this and try to rest. And for all our sakes, keep that mark covered, will you? Miranda and I came here to help the Inquisition. I’d prefer not to have to murder everyone just to keep you and Aran alive.”

“Why would you do that?” Dorian lifted his gaze, sharp with focus. “Why do any of this? Why put yourselves at risk?”

The healer made a clicking sound, turning away, “I asked your shiny new husband those questions once. I remember we were standing in the endless wet of the coastal rains and the mists of the Waking Sea, dripping with gore. He’d been helping me evade those hunting me and had taken issue when they’d caught up to us. We fought them, and he got himself stabbed trying to protect me. And while I was healing him, he promised to help me find somewhere safe, a purpose, a life. He said, ‘Everyone deserves at least one chance to sit in a boat and dream.’ He gave me that chance. And Miranda. Both of us. He had us in the palm of his hand time and time again and never asked for anything. If this is our chance to shield him, and you, in our palms, then that’s what we’ll do.” He huffed, flicking through his papers, “Now close your blighted eyes and go to sleep like a good little practitioner of the forbidden.”

Dorian didn’t sleep, but he did rest. They resided for a time in the pathos of things. Two minds filled with power, knowledge, and a sense of the fleeting embers of hope that could all too quickly be extinguished. 

The crack from the sky snapped and crackled, burning the atmosphere. A bottle by the fire shattered. Books tumbled from a stack to the floor. It startled them all, even Cole, who’d allowed himself to float, lulled, atop the lily pads of the mages’ thoughts. The ozone of the Fade - his once home - seared the insides of his nostrils. Cole touched the door and flinched back from the spell that hid them inside. Dorian threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“No!” Anders snapped.

“I will not lie here like an invalid while the world burns.” Dorian flicked his fingers and a staff from the corner snapped into his palm. “Are you coming along or aren’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole POV. Dorian POV. Aran POV.

9:41 Dragon - Haven

**Cole:**

“It won’t open,” Cole shook his head at the door. “It’s meant to keep us in.”

“It’s meant to keep _them_ _out_ ,” Anders rolled his eyes. “As little as I enjoy being cooped up anywhere, _this_ ward does serve a purpose. It would be a touch difficult to explain why a newly arrived apostate has a gravely wounded mage from Tevinter laid up in a cabin instead of helping the rest of the-“

Dorian leveled his borrowed staff at the door and it cracked off its hinges, flying into the snow beyond.

Anders threw his hands in the air. “Well, that defeats the purpose!”

Dorian stepped out into the late afternoon, the wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. The ward around the cabin dissipated like snow under the bright gaze of his power. Above them, the shredded sky shuddered, shedding tears of agony. The Veil.

“It’s the Breach.” Anders flexed his hand around his staff, gazing at the fluctuating chasm in the sky as another crack tore through the air around them. “They’re trying to close it,” he frowned. “It doesn’t sound too thrilled about the idea.”

“Priceless.” Dorian shook his head, “Who is ‘they’, pray tell?”

“The Circle delegation from Val Royeaux that arrived yesterday. The Templars who survived the Conclave. One of the girls who stepped from the Fade.” 

_ Poor little bird _ s. Dorian’s brow creased.  _ Poor little pawns.  _ “That won’t be enough.”

Anders’ gaze drifted to the trees, then to the dim light of Haven in the night beyond them. “They believe it is. They think that if they can seal the Breach quickly, they can stem the war before it truly begins.”

“It has already begun,” Cole whispered; they didn’t hear him, but they could hear the shouts from the ridge. Was Rhys there? And Evangeline? They needed him, didn’t they? Why would she have let him remain behind if- 

“Yes, yes, because we’re all aware how politics are so very simple.”

“The politics of fear have always been simple,” Anders murmured. 

“Where is Aran?” Dorian stiffened his shoulders, attempting not to show how heavily he was leaning on his borrowed staff. “Please tell me they didn’t take him along.”

“No- they wouldn’t have.” Anders ducked his head, “Perhaps… perhaps now is as good a time as any. While everyone’s occupied elsewhere.” He nodded towards the village. “Follow me.”

Cole shook his head as Anders turned towards Haven’s gates. “Not there.”

“Of course he’s there. Where else would he be?”

Cole pointed towards the blasts of green light echoing from the nearby mountain directly beneath the Breach. 

“They wouldn’t have-” Anders frowned, glancing at Dorian nervously, “They couldn’t have. You don’t understand. He’s not in a state to be moved. Nor is there any reason for them to try.”

“What do you mean, ‘not in a state’?” Dorian repeated, clipped. “You said he was well.”

“He  _ is _ . He is well. Physically,” Anders temporized. “Miranda was letting him sleep- keeping him asleep- until we were sure that you were…”

“Alive?”

“And free of taint. Yes. My point is, he couldn’t have woken unless she- but she wouldn’t have, it was too- and in any case-”

Cole set off towards the bridge to the left.  _ The little idiot is going to use his Mark, _ he could hear Dorian thinking- fuming. 

The Breach shuddered again, sky wailing, and pellets of twisting dark catapulted from its maw towards the village. Cole darted back as a misshapen shade resolved itself from the trembling, cracked shadows ahead of him. Then another. And another. He lowered his head and drew his blades. Behind them, they could smell smoke and hear the rising cries of villagers who’d remained behind. “Run- help them!” Cole told them; he flipped his daggers and-

“Fasta vass!” Dorian spun the staff in his hands, landing it with a snap in the snow. Fire blossomed from its tip with a heady hiss, writhing up and out like a nest of rousing serpents. They soared past and around Cole in a furious vortex, engulfing the bridge and the demons in one massive blaze to leave only the sticky remains of their corporeal forms in smoking puddles on the ground. 

Scorched earth. Snowmelt. A circle of pristine white at Cole’s feet.

He met Dorian’s gaze across the otherwise blackened ground and saw the sudden horror in the mage’s eyes. 

Anders whistled low, putting away a small bottle of lyrium. “Seems you’re fine, after-“ 

A massive chunk of stone landed behind Cole, shattering into dust. Another series of shouts and screams rose from Haven as more shards from the Fade slammed to earth. 

“Cole,” Dorian croaked. 

Cole touched his arm as he moved past him back towards the village. “We can protect them.”

* * *

**Dorian** :

“More!” Cole shouted. “I found more!” 

Dorian allowed a window of the flamed canopy protecting the chantry to shiver open like an eyelid and watched as Cole guided yet more villagers inside. As soon as they were through, it sealed behind them with a sizzle. A thought. The barest flexing of his will. 

Horrifying?

Wondrous.

He perched outside the open Chantry doors on a stool. The interior was packed full; bodies clustered together out of fear and panic and pain, soothed by the current of Chantry Sisters and Anders and Adan making the rounds, healing wounds, and easing the fears of the innocents who’d been caught and burned and terrorized by the demons. Demons that had fallen like meteors from the agonized Breach.

Foolish. Even with over a hundred rebel mages at their disposal, attempting to close the Breach in their own world and time had nearly cost Aran his sanity, let alone his life. Yet this Inquisition thought they could manage it with the scrappy combination of a handful of Templars and a dozen lost Circle mages? It was absurd. Reckless. And the length of time it was taking… It was only serving to stir up interest from the Fade. The risk to the mages on the ridge. The risk to everyone...

He should have been there. He should have been there, at Aran’s side, feeding his will into the girl this Inquisition had chosen to use in the same way they’d used Aran. Yet here he sat, feeding his power into the bones of the old building to shield it in flames. “That’s the last of them,” Cole murmured, pressing his hand to Dorian’s shoulder. “The once-Knight Commander and the here-hawk are making a last sweep of the town, but the villagers and pilgrims are safe.”

So long as no more demons fell. So long as they didn’t get past his barrier. So long as nothing else unforeseen occurred. “The ridge-“ he began. Aran, he thought. Was he still there? Was he well? If he left now, would it make any difference? 

“He’s...” Cole hesitated. Never a good sign, that. “He’s still there. They all are.”

“Blighted idiot.”

“Yes.” Cole frowned. “Something is coming. It feels strange. I should go see what it is-“ his hand flexed on Dorian’s shoulder. Comfort and contact. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Kind of you to say,” Dorian murmured. “I’m fine. I could hold this barrier for a fortnight. It’s likely safer for everyone if I do,” he added quietly. At least maintaining the flames, focusing on the shape of the canopy and the strength of the shield gave his power somewhere to go. It was flowing from him like an exhale, so blisteringly pleasant, fuller, and stronger by the second. “Go. We’ll be here. Try to get back before Aran does. It would be a shame if I murdered him.”

Cole nodded quickly. “I’ll do what I can.” 

Another deafening shudder. Another verdant scream from the sky above and they watched the swirling abyssal breach snap shut. 

“They did it?” Dorian stared at the seam in the sky with disbelief. “They did it. How  _ could _ they, without-” He glanced towards the people beginning to poke their heads out of the door to gaze up at the sky, then back to the swirl of clouds above and the soft green seam through the evening’s sunset. “That interfering-” He gritted his teeth, exhaling as he allowed his ward to lapse. “When he gets back here, I’ll throttle him.”

“The Breach! Do you see?” Cullen called, approaching the barrier; Dorian let it fall open before him and received a wary nod of appreciation from the commander. “Is it what it seems?”

Dorian nodded slowly, “It looks sealed. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be possible, but it appears-“ He could feel the Veil’s rough edges in the process of weaving together again, even now, even from here. “Yes. I believe so.”

“Thank you for your aid. We owe you a great debt.” His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his chin lifted, “Remain alert and wary,” he announced to those inside the Chantry. “I’ll take scouts and soldiers to the ridge to confirm that the Breach is indeed sealed and to assess our losses there. Let us be cautious still, lest we are caught unawares.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dorian rose.

“You’ve kept them safe. If something comes, some unseen threat, I’d like to think you could keep them safe again.”

A growl rolled like a trapped, anxious cat in the back of Dorian’s throat. He was drenched in power, yet his chest still arched as though… well, as though he’d been stabbed. He glanced around for Cole and found the spirit missing. Gone to look for whatever strangeness he’d sensed. Cullen wasn’t wrong. With the soldiers gone, and Cole, there would be no one to protect these people. “Very well.”

“Good man,” Cullen clapped him on the shoulder. “Then I will trust Haven will remain in good hands.” 

* * *

**Aran** :

Aran gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the paperbark of a birch tree as the energy of the Fade cracked and reverberated between him and the Breach. It ached- no. Stung- no; it was worse than anything- It always had been. He panted, tears leaking down his hot cheeks. From the ridge, from the trees, he could see them scrambling in the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes- the Rubble of Sacred Ashes- fighting demons amidst the remains of memory and knowledge and history. A bastion of Circle mages all pouring their power into the dwarf who was screaming at the top of her lungs, caught in the same shuddering struggle as Aran, like trying to ride a dragon through a snowstorm- Well, he’d done that, hadn’t he? He laughed, manic, panting, sinking to his knees in the snow with the effort. Ozone and blood on his tongue. His flesh tearing and rebuilding itself in an endless, agonizing loop. 

The girl was managing better than he had. Better than he remembered. Fierce and swearing up at the hole in the sky. He could hear the echoes of her oaths from where he knelt. She would need care after this, as he had, but she was strong. She was strong and she had help and-

_ Dorian- _ His heart ached. No. He couldn’t think of him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. 

The blood on his lips in the freshly fallen snow. The blood on Cole’s fist. The memory of that sight before the world had spun into darkness. The sound of Cole’s wretched voice, crumpled and uneven as paper, from the dark behind him in that stifling cabin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Words. Words that meant nothing. Nothing. 

He’d failed them both. 

They didn’t belong here. He and Dorian. Their memories. Their experiences. This wasn’t their world. Dorian was right. He was always right. They should have stayed away, far away, pursued their own questions. He hadn’t listened. He’d thought he’d known better. And as a result, Dorian was dead. Cole was drenched in blood and guilt. And Aran...

A drag of power snapped through him like a bolt, burning his kneecaps on the ground, throwing his head back with the shock as a fresh wave roared through him again- 

This- he could do this. He’d done it before. He’d been alone with the struggle then, young and untested like the dwarf who was kneeling amid the battle that raged around her. He was older now. Stronger. And by Mythal and the Maker and the Dread Wolf himself, he could do this much, if there was little else to live for-

He watched as their twinned bolts catapulted into the vortex of the screaming sky. Twinned… No. Three anchors? Three shimmering, emerald lines of power weaving into its eye- Its waking eye that seemed to crack open, scowling down at the world like the Maker’s own- Shuddering and shaking loose fragments as it fought to stay wide and watchful- They were winning, he thought, they were actually- They were-

Pain lanced through his shoulder - no, a barbed bolt of metal and wood- Aran spun to see a stout figure stepping towards him through the trees, a crossbow resting on his shoulder.

“Varric?” he whispered, feeling the poison take root in his veins, his muscles stiffening as darkness closed in around him. “What-“

He roused to watch the hoof-marred snow quake beneath his eyes, the edges of a saddle digging into his side. 

“You’re a fool.”

For a moment, Aran was certain that Fenris was speaking to him. He wasn’t wrong, certainly, but-

“Well, shit,” Varric laughed wearily. “Who isn’t, these days? Crazy times.”

“I’m awake,” Aran croaked.

An acerbic “We know” welcomed him back to consciousness. Fenris’ back was a rigid line, his chin lifted, his eyes focused ahead. 

Varric brought his mount around to ride alongside him, peering down at him. “Here’s the thing, Half-Glass. I like you. But you’ve got that glowy thing.” His wide grin was tight-edged. “You wanna tell me about the Mark, old buddy old pal?”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Aran shifted in the ropes binding him to the saddle. “Don’t tell me you’re taking me prisoner, Varric. That would be very disappointing.”

“Prisoner’s a rough word. Someone blew up a building. Then you showed up. Have you noticed how someone always seems to blow up a building when you show up? Just between you and me, that’s not a great sign.”

“I have explosive interests.”

“Yeah. Chantry-exploding interests.”

Aran sighed, watching the snow churn. “I didn’t attack the Conclave.”

“Gotta tell you, Half-Glass: I kind of expected you to deny that. Wouldn’t make a lot of sense in your position to admit to it.”

“I did help a group of apostates attack the Kirkwall Chantry.” He twisted his neck to peer up at Varric. “It had to be done.”

“ _ Had to be done _ ? Mages and Templars. Templars and Mages. An endless fucking shitstorm.” Varric shook his head roughly. “So - what - Starkhaven wasn’t paying enough? You thought you’d make a little extra coin stirring up trouble in the South for the Vints? Do you really want Tevinter to invade? With the shitshow they’ve got going?”

“What in the Void are you talking about?” 

“That! I’m talking about that!” 

Aran turned his head to follow Varric’s indication. At first, he saw nothing- nothing at all. Snow cast in orange by the setting sun. Then Fenris gripped his shoulder, a pulse of electric heat cleared what felt like cobwebs from his mind, and he saw… Upside down and sideways, he gazed down the cliff to see the camps spotting the valley below. Colorful, high-peaked tents with fluttering banners. The scent of spice on the air. The distinctive black mail and horseflesh of Tevinter knights. 

Knights. Not Venatori.

An army. Not spies.

“See, we know about your friends. We know they came down through the mountains right between Orlais and Ferelden without either being the wiser. What we don’t know is what their move is.”

“My… friends.” Aran blinked slowly. “You truly think I'm working for Tevinter?”

“Showing up with a Vint in tow. Magic time-traveling.” Varric crossed his arms. “The mark on your hand that’s directly related to the attack on the Divine and the Conclave-“

“Blood magic,” Fenris intoned gruffly.

“Yeah,” the dwarf nodded, frowning. “The blood magic thing’s not great, either, buddy. Nor is the fucking army down there.”

“He may not be aware of what he has been doing. Their influence can be pervasive.”

“I’m not under- feck’s sake, Fenris. Varric, come on.”

“Is this the whole force?” Varric asked, watching him mournfully. “That’s what we need to know.”

“Varric, I’m not working for Tevinter. I swear to you.”

“That you know of,” Fenris growled.

“I’m not,” he insisted. 

“Is that why you were trying to stop us from sealing the Breach?”

“ _ Stop _ you? I-“ The sky was darkening overhead, a verdant seam through the constellations. So the Breach was healed. They’d done that much at least. 

He had to admit, it didn’t look good. He couldn’t blame them. Varric had a point. Several good points. Very compelling circumstantial evidence. He’d shown up at several inopportune times. Knowing things he oughtn't. Chaos followed him like a plague. He’d brought Dorian to Haven. Dorian who was dead, dead because of him. He’d fled as soon as he’d wrestled free of the magic holding him in place, keeping him a prisoner in his own mind. If they’d found him on the ridge above the Temple of Sacred Ashes… No. It didn’t look good at all. He flexed his arms in the ropes. “I was  _ helping _ her to seal it.”

“Do you know how much I want to believe that?” Varric sighed. “How much we do? We like you.” 

“And I like you.”

“But this is shady as fuck.”

“I can see how it would appear that way.” Aran gritted his teeth. “All the blood is draining into my head. I need you to let me sit up so I can think.” He glanced back from the colored fires erupting one by one between the rows of tents below. Varric was in his saddle, frowning, still. “Listen, I know how it appears but you have to believe me. I don’t know anything about this.” Nothing. “Fenris.” Not simply still. A light cling of blue crackled over the surface of their skin in the dim light. 

He felt the ropes at his arms and wrists shift and writhe, slithering free to fall to the snow like snakes. 

Not  _ like _ snakes. 

Their gleaming, undulating bodies left warm, molten trails through the snow towards the boulders as a pair of robed figures stepped out of hiding. One of them knelt to collect the snakes into a basket. 

Aran slumped off the saddle, watching between the horses’ legs as the second figure moved towards him through the snow. “Stay back.” Varric wasn’t stupid; he’d taken his weapons, likely as soon as he’d passed out. Disarmed and bound him. His toes were tingling. His head still swam from hanging upside down. He ached- from the binding, from the Mark, from the grief over his loss and-

The hooded figure knelt on the other side of the two mounts, gloved hands folding on his knees. Black robes, gleaming with enchanted silver embroidery that seemed lit from within like stars. The inscription doubled and swam in Aran’s vision, as did the face that was revealed when the hood was nudged back. Warm, dark eyes. Full, smiling lips. Nests of unruly auburn curls at his temples, around his ears, at the base of his neck. 

“Ril,” he whispered.

“Aran,” Rilienus smirked, eyeing him curiously. “Fancy seeing you here.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Explicit m/m content in this chapter. If you’d prefer to skip it, go to the line mid-chapter and read after it. Thanks!

9:40 Dragon - Minrathous

Rilienus loved mornings. The play of shadows against the ceiling. The way the first dregs of day brushed like fingers across the night, stronger and stronger, until they overtook the whole sky. The quietness - not silence. The distant call of birds above the sea, the almost imaginary whoosh as magefires doused one by one with the coming day. His heartbeat. Dorian’s. The soft tickle at his shoulder; Dorian’s breath so deep in slumber that it could have been a breeze blowing feathers in a steady rhythm against his skin. 

The pad of footfalls in the hallway as the Archon’s household began the business of daily life. The Archon.  _ His _ Archon. The one they’d killed and bled for. The one Tevinter needed. The Liberator. The Protector, with his protectorate. His council. Aelia Heres-Pavus, with her gift for Creation. Feynriel d’Alessi, the somniari they’d collected from the South. Gereon Alexius, chief of research of the Minrathous Circle and his son, Felix, freshly seated upon the dais as Divine. Aran… The seer, the spy, the spider that had brought them all together and helped them overthrow a nation. And Rilienus, himself. Of course. Concilior, guard and guide of the magisterium… among other things.

He knew the moment when Dorian began to wake. They’d fallen asleep where they lay the night before, still entwined, and he could feel Dorian inside of him. Shifting. Lengthening. Twitching. He’d felt his dreams in the night. He felt his waking awareness this morning. 

Rilienus exhaled quietly as Dorian’s hips shifted. Once. Twice. That slow breath quickening against his shoulder, the back of his neck. Slumbering, relaxed fingers curving around his hips in absent-minded pressure. Pressure. Rilienus rolled his hips back and down gently, following the path of those guiding fingers, and felt the answering brush of lips and mustache against his skin. 

Dorian’s growing alertness was like a slow motion thrust, filling him inch by inch through the sheer act of growth. Long, ringed fingers gently stroked Rilienus’ sensitive skin, tangling in the hair between his legs, cupping his tender, taut sack. Kisses like warm summer rain. “Good morning,” whispered the curl of a sleep-flattened mustache against his neck.

“It is.” Rilienus’ breath hitched as Dorian’s hips rocked forward, seating himself fully inside of him. With an instinct born of years, he scooped a few fingers worth of the slick paste he’d made and reached between them to coat the base of Dorian’s cock as he rocked gently out. 

“Ah,” he moaned under his breath. The scent of the paste wrapped around them, growing stronger as it smoothed the path for quicker movements, deeper thrusts. 

Aran loved this smell. Sex and slick. Almonds and honey and cream. And cream. And cream. Breakfast, he’d called it once, and ‘scran’ more often - as he lapped and rolled his tongue inside of Rilienus, what had felt like hours, like a wave washing against his shore. Gone. He’d been gone for nearly four months this time. He’d been dragged from them, despite their best efforts, just after they’d managed to free Dorian from that damned bloodstone. He’d missed his own Naming, and Felix’s, and most of the gross and subtle fruits of his labor- They knew he would be back, at some point, he’d said as much, and yet the waiting.  _ When. When. When _ . 

_ Come home, Aran _ , he whispered in his heart. And, for once, he knew it was for himself. The last time he’d found himself actively wishing, wanting, wondering about Aran, it had been for Dorian’s sake. Dorian, crumpled and exhausted, asleep on his books, smelling of terrible wine. Dorian short-tempered and snarling at the most innocuous and typical of Magisterium machinations. Then, he’d needed Aran for the man’s ability to somehow just step in and soothe, reach into Dorian’s fracturing psyche and give him anchor, trust, patience. Maker knew Rilienus and Aelia had been running short on that last. But now. Now, Rilienus just needed him. Strange, how he’d come to love the time-ridden rogue. Aran wasn’t to his taste at all. Shouldn’t have been. He liked his men dark and handsome, smooth, relaxed and restful. Independent and lovely as cats. Strong and giving as fine fabric. The southerner was… erratic, pale and scarred, half in the Fade, half out of his mind, rough-edged and impulsive. 

Dorian groaned against his shoulder, his rhythm smoothing out to slow, steady rolls of flesh against flesh. Sweat against sweat. Rilienus sighed, “I want to see you;” extricated himself to climb on top of Dorian, sinking down onto his staff again with a relieved exhale. Spreading his hands over that smooth expanse of strong, muscled caramel.  _ Beautiful _ , Aran called him,  _ a statuesque god _ , and he was. Velvet and lustrous cotton, all sun-colored. The kind of color you could taste. But he was also flawed, deliciously. Just this side of asymmetrical, the kind of imperfections that could only be seen after intricate study. Rilienus bent to kiss those sleepy, smiling lips, brushing noses as he did. 

_ I miss him, too _ , he wanted to say, to whisper, to admit in this hushed moment, to bring Aran there with them even when he wasn’t, couldn’t be. Later, maybe, when Dorian wasn’t looking so peacefully pleased. They could spend a maudlin afternoon missing their shared lover together. Maybe knowing that Rilienus had become nearly as hooked on the madman as Dorian… maybe that would make him feel better. They could help each other through it. Find a slender blond at the baths, take him to a steam room, and pretend for a while. 

Rilienus sighed lifting up on his knees to sink again, eyes fluttering closed. Pretend. Yes. He wrapped his hand around his cock as he filled himself like a glutton with Dorian’s long, curved phallus. Imagined the wicked gleam in Aran’s eyes as he bent, taking Rilienus’ dripping tip between his lips, his hot, panting, slick tongue eagerly lapping and sucking. Rilienus bit his lip, swallowing a moan as he impaled himself again, again, deeper, luxuriating in Dorian’s hands drawing smooth warming spells on his skin. 

He was becoming very, very good at imagining. He could almost feel Aran’s breath on his skin, smell that rich tapestry of forest and loam that was so specifically his. Gasps and flutters. Hands on hands, smooth, caressing him. Then Dorian murmured, “Welcome home-” A rich purr, pleased, panting… 

Rilienus turned over his shoulder to see a head of damp, white hair just below his shoulder an instant before he felt the bristle of stubble scrubbed against the tender skin of his back. Lips closing over his spine. Kissing a pathway down. Rilienus blinked, gaze stuttering back to Dorian. 

Lighter than he’d been in days. Effervescent. 

Maker, Aran was real. Real and home again. 

He bit his lip as he felt Aran’s tongue slip down his cleft. The cool, slick tongue circling his cock-filled asshole. Rilienus leaned forward, taking Dorian’s lips with his own, kissing him breathlessly as Aran tasted their joined bodies, fingers, mouth, and tongue exploring inside and out. Those nimble fingers stretched him, opening him, squeezing past Dorian to press and caress Rilienus’s channel as he sucked and slurped at the base of Dorian’s shaft. 

He sighed as the fingers inside of him pressed him forward, forward, off of Dorian’s cock; he turned to watch Aran mouth sink over it, groaning. “Fuck, this scran,” he whispered after his lips released with a slight popping sound. 

Coarse. Coarse and ridiculous. 

Rilienus grinned, kissing Dorian’s cheek. Groaned as Aran’s fingers left his ass to drag his hips back, brushing his cock against Dorian’s saliva and slick covered one. “Aah-“ he pressed his forehead to Dorian’s as the slick head of Aran’s cock pressed into him, sinking, sinking, drawing away and beginning again.

“You been at the baths again, Ril, or has Dorian been riding you ragged?” 

Rilienus opened his mouth to answer, but all that emerged was a long series of groans as Aran took full advantage of his well-stretched, well-fucked ass to pound into him deep and hard and fast- Maker, fast. Dorian’s hand closed around their pinned cocks, stroking them together as Aran took him, took him, took him- Ah, Maker, deep so deep and heedless. 

“Ah, I’ve missed you. I- nng-“ 

“Missed- too-“ he dropped his head, sweat dripping into his eyes. 

They lay in a sweating pile as the sun poured bright through the tall, stained windows. “High ceilings, fancy palace, still can’t get the bloody heat under control,” Aran whined, drowsy, hushing as Rilienus sent a light coat of frost cascading over his skin. “Ah, thank the Maker.”

“Thank me, instead.”

“Thanks, Ril.”

Dorian was watching them, his dark, clever eyes soft as down feathers. “Did you arrive in the white room again?”

“Not this time. Dropped in the bay at Qarinus. Feynriel found me,” Aran was saying, his fingers brushing back and forth across Dorian’s shoulder. “The roads seemed safer on my way to Minrathous. The city seems calm.”

“Calmer. The liberati are still finding their footing, but we have several proposals being moved through the magisterium to address their needs. It will take time.”

“And the crazed cultist project? Time is running out there.”

“Nearly routed,” Rilienus hummed against his back. “We’ve just got one more-”

“It’s being dealt with.” Dorian pulled Aran to him, kissing him soundly. “The next project for you is breakfast. Have you seen Aelia yet? She’ll want to pick your brain, and I need you to fill in your latest trials and travels in the log book, if you would.”

Aran grumbled under his breath, clambering off the end of the bed. “Not back an hour and you put me to work.”

“The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get back to enjoying your company. You know we can’t do anything about your dilemma without data-”

“I know, I  _ know- _ Void and Deep,” he scrubbed his hands through his mess of shock white hair. There were new scars on his shoulders, bruises on his elbows. He flung the lattice-work door open and disappeared into the adjoining suite. “Like being back at the bloody Chantry,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Grumpy,” Dorian lifted a brow, tilting his head to peer at the door. 

“You don’t want to tell him about Corypheus?”

His Archon eased up onto an elbow, smoothing the curve of his moustache. “Why? So he can go rushing off to the South when we’re handling it?” Rilienus allowed himself to be gathered to his side, following Dorian’s gaze to the door. “We’ll tell him when it’s finished. When it’s done. Not before. We are his only safe haven, as he was once ours. We have to protect him- cherish him- for as long as we have him.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am.”

“Then I will be guided by you.” He narrowed his eyes as Aran stalked back out in a set of black robes, “You need a haircut.”

“I need parchment and ink,” Aran crossed his arms. “So I can do my lines like a good little soporati.”

“Very grumpy,” Dorian smirked, pressing a kiss to the top of Rilienus’ head. “We have our work cut out for us, you and I.”

“Why is nothing simple?” he sighed, easing from the bed. He stretched, feeling Aran’s gaze follow his movements and smiled, extending a hand as his robes roused from where they hung to drape themselves about him. “Come along,  _ meus molliculus caseus _ .” 

* * *

9:41 Dragon - North of Haven 

“Come along,  _ meus molliculus caseus _ ,” he called over his shoulder. 

“Don’t hurt them.”

“ _ Hurt _ them?” he paused, turning back. “Why on earth would I hurt them? They only shot you, poisoned you, and tied you to the back of a horse like a sack of refuse.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“It’s a very  _ curious _ misunderstanding.” 

Aran lifted his chin in a challenge. Stubborn. Furious. Wary.  _ Fasta vass _ ,  _ they’d _ hurt  _ him _ . He’d been bleeding, raw, scorched and poisoned, not even able to stand- and yet he was  _ defending _ them? It didn’t matter that the physical damage had easily been resolved by one of his field medics. That they’d dared to lay a finger on his-

Rilienus rolled his eyes, waving a negligent hand. “I’ve no interest in them personally,” he lied. “There’s only so much I can do, Araniolus. The lyrium wolf will be problematic if I release the spell that binds him. The dwarf has a reputation.”

“I can explain things to them.”   
“What, precisely, do you plan to explain to them? You, who they clearly trust so very deeply?” 

Aran opened his mouth, shut it, looked around at the encampment they were walking through. The fluttering banners and gleaming black plate mail. “What are you doing here? What is all of this? What-”

“All will be explained,” he waved the mulish man forward, “when you come along.”

“Ril- I mean it. Whatever it looked like, those men are my friends. My comrades. They haven’t - either of them - had great experiences out of Tevinter.”

“Neither have I. We are a new Tevinter now and they will learn to love us. They’ve only to open their eyes and see.”

“You  _ are _ new,” Aran frowned. “And different. But people won’t just  _ know _ that. They’ve reason to be suspicious when they see a bloody  _ army- _ Why, by all the gods above and below, is there a bloody army? What are you doing with them? What are you doing in Ferelden? In  _ this _ Ferelden?”

“It’s frigid,” he clipped. “I can feel your energy like frayed threads. Let me warm you. Let me ease your suffering. Let me see you, breathe you, for one blessed moment without you arguing with me.” He clasped the space between them and pulled, dragging Aran bodily through the air and into his arms. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw you hanging there? The fact that your so-called friends still draw breath is a credit to my restraint.”

Aran stared up at him. “I’m  _ fine- _ ”

Lying. His heart was in his eyes, broken, leaking tears to freeze on his cheeks. “You’re  _ fine _ , yes. You’re always  _ fine _ , aren’t you? Shredded and bruised, pulled asunder- I still haven’t been able to erase the time from my mind’s eye that we found you in the east garden covered in blood.  _ Fine _ ,” he snarled, gathering him close. “You foolish puppy.” He kissed him, because he couldn’t bear not to, couldn’t bear to hold himself at a distance any longer. He released him, because holding him close for a moment more would mean tearing his beaten, useless armor off in the middle of the camp. 

Aran swayed, unsteady. 

“Come with me,” he repeated, quiet. “I need you to come with me. Out of the cold.”

“Promise me,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I promise I won’t allow a hair on their menacing heads to be harmed. Now will you come.”

Aran’s fingers were like ice when they twined with his own. “Yes. Now I’ll come.”

He rested his chin between Aran’s shoulderblades, tracing the raw, pulsing burn that twined about his lover’s previously unmarred arm. A dragon, a serpent, it’s maw open around his shoulder like it was biting him. They’d collapsed in a sprawl amidst the cushions, the incense spicing the air, pleasant and protecting. “So you found him again.”

“He's gone,” Aran whispered. “Lost. I couldn’t protect him. I can’t protect anyone-” 

“Patently untrue.” Rilienus kissed his spine. “A bond like this is eternal. Rare. Impossibly rare. And so very, very intricate. An exchange of power. Where did he find the ritual to work it?”

“In my head. Not that it’s done any fucking good.” Aran buried his face in his hands. 

“Why do you keep saying that?”   
“Am I not supposed to grieve? Eternity is all well and good, but I have to live the rest of  _ this _ fucking life-”

Rilienus peered at the curve of his spine. The tousled stark white hair, shorn and shaved around the edges. An answer. An answer was easy enough to give him peace of mind. He exhaled slowly, drawing a tendril of the power from the mark on Aran’s skin and casting it to the full mirror beside the bed. He watched the image of them lying together blur and shift, a flash of bright golden light blossomed from the mirror- blinding- and retreated to… Dorian. Not Dorian. Bearded and auburn. But there were those same clever, dark eyes, the full lips curved in a thoughtful frown, his fist tucked against the side of his face as he scowled at the pages of a book. Aran’s breath caught and broke in a sob as he saw it. 

“Stop- Make it stop-”

“It really  _ is _ him, isn’t it?” Rilienus wondered, petting Aran’s head. “I believed you, of course, but it’s hard to imagine more than one of them existing… The realms should quake with them both here, you would think.”

“ _ Please _ .”

“It makes you sad to see him?”

“He’s  _ dead- I saw him die- _ ”   
“What are you quivering about? He’s right there. Quite alive and practically beside us.” Rilienus pointed. “Haven. See the mountain behind him. He doesn’t look particularly… Ah, there is a bit of a flinch. He’s had an excellent healer, certainly. One or two more couldn’t hurt. We could bring him here.”

Aran was staring at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“There’s a schedule I have to keep to. Your schedule, actually. But I could send a scout to collect him, bring him here. Have our healers finish the work they’ve begun and get him back to full strength. I’ll admit, I am desperately curious to see him in person. Can we rid him of the beard, though? It’s horrendous.”

“That’s- that’s  _ now _ ? He’s alive? He’s- He’s  _ alive _ .”

“Of course he’s alive. It’s surprising that you can’t feel it through the bond.” He frowned, “Sometimes I forget you really are soporati. What a miserable existence.” He lifted a brow as Aran scrambled off the bed to the mirror, tracing Dorian’s features. “It’s a reflection, Aran. He can’t feel you. Not through that. But he knows you’re alive and well, of that I’m certain.”

“How? Because of the ritual?”

“The Bright Star of the North might well be able to say that and more within minutes. Alas, you’ve got me. If you let me study the binding mark for a few weeks, perform some tests, I could probably tell you everything it does. The ritual itself would be even more helpful. You could write it down for me-”

“Ril!”

Rilienus lifted one brow, “That would be my guess as to why, but for your purposes at this moment, it matters little. That he knows, by some means, I am sure; if he didn’t, if he's anything like our Dorian, he wouldn’t be sitting there reading a book.” 

“Consilior?” 

He glanced at the tent’s entrance, letting the ward fall away to let the messenger step inside. 

The young man’s eyes widened, glancing between Aran and himself, but he wisely held his tongue. “We’ve collected a spirit at the edge of the wards. Their mages may know we’re here, if they’re sending advance scouts-”

“They are Southerners,” Rilienus murmured irritably, rising. “How many times must I explain this. Their advance scouts are not spirits; I don’t care how many ‘mages’ they’ve collected. What do our Watchers see?”

“They closed the Breach. They are celebrating the victory. The tainted Templars are on the move. The dragon is in flight.”

“Then we maintain our wards and shields and hold our action.”

“What action?” Aran asked, looking between them as he slipped into a loose robe and belted it. “What spirit?”

The messenger’s eyes widened as he took in Aran’s gleaming lyrium scars, the pulse of green light in his palm, the telling white mane. “Apologies, my lord, my orders were only to report to the Consilior… I-”

“What. Spirit.”

“Go ahead,” Rilienus rolled his wrist, sinking into a chair and pouring himself a glass of wine. 

“It’s… one of the Compassions. An odd choice, an odd-”

“Bring him here.”

Rilienus glanced at Aran mildly. “Another friend?”

“Cole,” he breathed. “It’s Cole.”

“You heard the Consort,” he met the messenger’s startled gaze. “Bring the spirit to my tent. Take care with him. He spooks easily.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

“What action is he talking about?” Aran pointed after the messenger as he departed and the ward resealed behind him in a shimmer of light. 

Rilienus traced the lip of his wine glass. “The Archon believes in nipping problems in the bud. You know this. We drove the Venatori from our borders, but some still remained to the south. We made some attempts at diplomacy, but a new Archon…” He sighed, lifting a shoulder, “After the trouble we went through to put him on the seat, it will take some... effort to make the other nations see reason. We were able to draw many of the mages that Corypheus had recruited back into our fold with the aid of one of his former generals, but Templars are… idiots. Especially the ones down here.” He tilted his head back, “So here we are. To handle them.”

“Handle the- Corypheus,” he breathed. Realized. “The Red Templars.”   
“As you predicted. Yes.” 

“You came down to help them stop him. Ril- Varric thinks that you’re invading the South.”

“I am not concerned with what a pulp novelist thinks,” he rested back in his chair, crossing his ankles, in a show of ease. “We are doing what is needed to end the threat you foretold.”

“ _ Tell _ them that,” Aran gestured wildly. “Go to the Inquisition, tell them you’re here, tell them that Corypheus is coming-”

“No.”

Aran blinked at him. “What- What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Aran,” Rilienus rose, crossing the tent, his robes following him, flowing onto him on the breeze he’d generated. “This ‘Elder God’ is on his last legs and he believes the Inquisition and their Herald of Andraste are the only things standing in his way. He knows where they are. He’ll come right to us, with his whole force, and we can end this once and for all. End him. End the whole game in one move. If your band of rebels still needs assurances after that, we’ll consider offering them then. Not before.” He nudged Aran back towards the bed with a flick of his fingers, “Now. Tell me what I need to know about your Cole; I’d prefer to avoid any unpleasantness.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’m on [Tumblr](http://oftachancer.tumblr.com/)! Come say hello!


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